


took me by the wrist

by tomlinzn (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Bottom Harry, Canon Compliant, Felching, M/M, Overstimulation, Top Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:23:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3276608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tomlinzn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the moment, everything feels like it’s on fire, but suddenly Louis just feels boneless. He kind of can’t believe that this beautiful boy is all his. Harry looks wrecked but he’s grinning like a criminal, and city lights smile over them both.</p><p>(harry's twenty-one; louis still loves him. there's birthday sex.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	took me by the wrist

**Author's Note:**

> OK I KNOW IT'S NOT HARRY'S BIRTHDAY ANYMORE.... I KNOW IT..... BUT IT'S THE FIRST DAY OF HIM BEING TWENTY-ONE SO IT STILL COUNTS!!!!  
> this would've been up earlier and it would've been beta'd, but it's now 3:06am and i literally want to swandive out a window ok so that's not happening.  
> sorry for any mistakes or if anything doesn't make sense. this is just like..... buttsex. between two boys. who love each other a lot. who doesn't like that.  
> i have tumblr @ [tomlinzn](http://www.tomlinzn.tumblr.com) so come say hi angels.  
> title is from "birthday in los angeles" by the maine :-)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: don't be a fucking idiot. you know what i mean. xx

They fall into bed, the night bruised on their throats, drunk on each other.

“S’my birthday,” Harry giggles warmly into Louis’s shoulder.

“Mmm,” Louis hums, eyes closed.

“Happy birthday,” Harry mumbles, turning over.

This isn’t home—this city, it’s not. But pressed against Harry, front-to-back, Louis forgets about sprawling boulevards and a sun that’s still not quite as bright as his boy. He shifts in closer, wraps Harry up.

“Not my birthday, Haz,” Louis laughs.

“What’s mine’s yours,” Harry says. He cranes his head back and kisses Louis to sleep.

 

+

 

When he awakens, it’s slow—he comes to his senses trying to understand the soft heat radiating in his gut, and the solid length of Harry’s longer body curled into the curve of his. There’s absolutely nothing Louis loves more, because in their whirlwind world, this is the only forever he seems to really have.

At sixteen, he remembers having to cram together in the X-Factor bunk, remembers how he’d end up on the precipice of the bed—Harry refused to sleep on the outside, because he’d throw his limbs around so much—and find Harry facedown in his pillow but hanging onto Louis like a lifeline.

That’s what he was, Louis supposes now. He winces as he shifts and hears as something pops and loosens in his back, ducks down to kiss the honey curve of Harry’s shoulder.

At seventeen, he remembers a Harry who’d wake up before him, a Harry he doesn’t see now because he’s so exhausted all the time. He misses opening his eyes and seeing nothing but green.

“Baby,” Louis says, raking his fingertips through the valley of Harry’s chest, thumbing against the hollow of his throat. He hears a snuffle and a groan, smiles into the riot of curls in his face.

At eighteen, Harry and Louis liked to watch the sun rise. Grumbling, Louis would sit up and throw his covers off and pad to the window, reaching for Harry when he came in without even knowing he was doing so. They’d drink their tea together and fuck right there and Louis always spent the day looking over, watching as Harry pushed his own fingers into his hips just for the reminder of it.

“What?” Harry asks. Louis doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s frowning.

“Happy _birthday_ —” Louis starts to sing, but Harry cuts him off.

“I know but I’m sleeping now,” he grumbles, a near-incomprehensible slur of words. He folds himself up further and burrows further back against Louis, like he’s the fine-boned, chubby-cheeked kid he used to be. Harry’s _twenty-one_ now, and Louis almost can’t believe it.

“All right, I’ll save my breath then,” Louis says, offended.

“Okay,” Harry says, his arm snaking up his own chest so he can thread their fingers together.

Harry was cheeky at nineteen; it feels like a lifetime ago, almost. Mostly, though, he thinks that suddenly mornings together weren’t something that he could take for granted and for Louis—that had been alarming at best. When they kissed in weak daylight, it was hard, like somehow the breath in their lungs didn’t matter and they surrounded each other.

And then Louis remembers twenty in blurs—twenty is the taste of Harry’s tongue and skin after a long flight, is shackles that have come free in increments, is the way Harry laughs and the way he sounds at four in the morning. Twenty is yesterday morning when Harry touched him like he was precious. Twenty is knowing he’s loved this boy for—for almost five years.

“ _Hey_ ,” Harry says suddenly, drawing out the word the way he does. Louis doesn’t open his eyes, but noses into Harry’s jaw. “Hey, Lou. Lou, I love you.” He pauses and giggles. “I love Lou.”

“Go back to sleep, Harry. Think you’re still pissed.”

 

+

 

“I can’t believe,” Louis starts over the rim of a wine glass, “you invited _David Beckham_ and you didn’t tell me, you absolute twat.”

Under the dim lamplight, lips stained and eyes hazy, Harry’s gorgeous. They’re curled in bed, and it’s not quite like bed at home, but it’s something. Louis can see Harry silhouetted by the vast Los Angeles skyline behind him.

They’ve stayed in today; Harry has finally stopped complaining about his head throbbing, they’re still wondering why there’s a dark handprint-shaped bruise on Harry’s bottom when that hasn’t even been a _thing_ , Harry’s been holding on to their strip of disgusting photos from the photo booth for literal hours, and Louis feels light all over. He brushes a fingertip over where his dimple caves in Harry’s cheek, guiding him around for a kiss that tastes like cheap icing and Merlot. When they pull apart, Harry’s mouth still twitches with a grin.

“That was part of the surprise, babe.”

“It was _your_ birthday!” Louis’s indignant. He refuses to let this go—David Beckham, fuck. He won’t be changing his lock screen for a long fucking time.

“No, _this_ is my birthday.” Harry reaches over to set his glass on the nightstand, and then slides his arm out from beneath Louis, tumbles over so he can straddle Louis’s thighs. Rising up on his knees, he brings his hands up, settles warm palms on Louis’s cheeks. “I know you’re not mad, you thanked me when you were blowing me last night.”

Of course he’s not mad. “David Beckham,” Louis insists. “I’ve wanked to him more than I’ve wanked to you. That’s a lot of wanking.”

He earns a deep scowl in response, a pout that makes him drag Harry down so he can kiss it away gently. “Well. I don’t think he’ll be making anymore appearances, thanks.”

Louis cracks a grin, toying with the wispy curls at the nape of Harry’s neck. His hands skate down the wings of Harry’s shoulder blades, and he bunches Harry’s jumper up in the clutch of his fingers. “It’s exclusively you, now, promise.”

“I can’t believe we’re in the position where you even _have_ to wank,” Harry sighs, dropping down so he’s properly sitting in Louis’s lap, his thighs tightening over Louis’s hips. Louis shivers when Harry leans down and brushes his lips against the jut of his collarbone, tugs the scoop of Louis’s shirt down so he can set his teeth into the _What_ swirling on his skin. “Kind of miss when we’d just, like, fuck on the bus and have to listen to Liam whine about it the next day.”

“You sure that was it? Liam’s whining?” Louis asks, arching a brow.

“Is this the part where you make fun of me for my supposedly weird kinks?”

“I’d never, mate.” As if to make a point, Louis slings his arms over Harry’s shoulders and kisses him again, deeper than before. Harry sighs into it, one hand slipping down and resting on Louis’s chest so he can rub lightly at the bud of his nipple. He elicits a sharp inhale, has Louis licking into the seam of his lips.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

 

+

 

Ten minutes later, Louis is down to his joggers—which ride dangerously low on his hips, and Harry keeps eyeing the exposed skin—and Harry’s nearly naked, in nothing but tiny black boxer-briefs, laid out on his back.

“Love you, happy birthday,” Louis keeps saying into the spots he kisses. He’s unfastened Harry’s failing bun, so his hair spills out over the pillow, and he’d massaged Harry’s temples, sucked on his earlobes, dropped kisses against his eyelids and the bridge of his nose and the arches of his cheekbones, nipped all along the cut of his straining, set jaw.

“Love you too,” Harry says back unfailingly, every goddamn time. He grips Louis’s waist tight, rutting upwards in needy rolls of his hips, whining into Louis’s deep, slow kisses. It’s not enough but they’ve got _hours,_ haven’t they, and Louis is determined to make the most of them. He keeps stroking his tongue against Harry’s, grazing his teeth into his lip until it’s swollen.

He doesn’t know how long they make out, exactly, because he’s too busy sucking on Harry’s tongue, turning their kiss into something urgent and dirty, but he doesn’t care because getting lost in Harry is something he’s done for years ( _years_ , and he will for years to come) and it’s all he really knows anymore. Harry hitches a leg up over Louis’s hip, heel digging into the curve of his back, and coaxes him down, heat sparking up between them.

“You’re a tease,” Harry accuses when Louis breaks away and mouths at the column of his throat, deepening an already-dark love bite at the base of it. He streaks his lips along the length of Harry's neck, digging his teeth in and soothing the sting away and making Harry gasp.

“Shut up,” Louis tells him, sinking his teeth into his collarbone.

“God—just—”

“Baby, just let me.”

Maybe Harry understands, like always; he just goes quiet and lets his hands fall to his sides, fisting into the sheets, and his head tips back, a short noise bubbling through him. Louis can feel his pulse race and kisses him there, too, makes sure he leaves tiny marks wherever he can, all up and down Harry’s graceful neck and against his shoulders.

He doesn’t stop there, either; he moves a little, kissing every tattoo on Harry’s biceps, along his forearms, nibbling on his wrists and pressing kisses into his palms and the tips of his fingers, then making his way back up. Louis bites at every hickey he’s left, and then pushes his thumb into the sore spots, revels in Harry’s whimpers, smoothes his lips over the wings of Harry’s swallows and then further down his chest.

The stiff line of Harry’s cock presses against Louis’s when Louis grinds into him, pulling the bud of one nipple into his mouth while rolling the other between his pinched fingers. That makes Harry moan, and he pushes his chest up into Louis, gets him to clamp his teeth down on just this side of too much. Louis switches over quickly, thumb digging against Harry’s now inflamed nipple. Harry likes it when it hurts, a little—likes having something to keep with him. So Louis sucks and bites at his chest until he’s squirming, until he’s letting out a soft, pained little laugh when Louis tugs one up between his teeth.

“Think you’ve chewed on them enough?” Harry says. He still moans when Louis flicks his tongue out against the nub of one, though, still chases the sharp prick of pain. “Touch me.”

“I am,” Louis says.

“You’re not, you’re really— _ah_.”

He can’t help his smirk when he yanks Harry’s pants down, rubs the backs of two fingers along the thick vein running up the underside of his cock insistently without actually giving him _enough_. Harry grits his teeth together audibly and humps into Louis’s touch, eyes rolling back as Louis dips his thumb into his wet slit, pressing down enough for it to sting.

“Good?” Louis asks, and there’s no answer, so he ducks back down. He draws his mouth up against the _stupid_ fucking butterfly tattoo spanning Harry’s torso—he hates it but it’s on Harry so he loves it, too, licking against the edges of each wing, kissing down the shallow indents of his abdomen, jerking him off too-slow at the same time.

Harry’s body has changed over the years; he’s not quite as lanky as he used to be, has grown into his gawky angles. He’s soft now, looks a touch broader, and Louis wants to touch him always. His free hand rests on the gentle swell of Harry’s waist where it flares out in a sweet love-handle, lips working down his stomach. He chuckles when it rumbles, and Harry takes the liberty of chucking him in the back of the head for it.

He doesn’t stop, though, exhaling over wet skin, sucking bruises where he probably shouldn’t be. Harry breathes heavily, and by the time Louis starts nibbling at his tummy he’s restless, legs sliding down and knees propping up so he can rock upwards as if that’ll give him any sort of relief. Just this—being touched like this, having Louis love him with lips and tongue, having Louis’s hand on his cock and on his body, that’s more than enough to get him desperate. Louis knows that from experience.

They giggle together when Louis kisses at Harry’s navel and then bites at it, and Harry moans expectantly as Louis trails kisses down the fine hairs leading down, as he lays his mouth in a row of sweet bites all along the base of his belly and on the slant of his hips.

Louis glances up, and Harry’s not looking, eyes shut tight, a hand on his own chest as he teases his oversensitive nipples himself, scrapes at them roughly and then even _rougher_ when Louis gets his mouth on Harry’s cock.

This is something Louis has had practice with—he sinks down shallow, suckles on the leaking head and twists his hand around the base, the twinge of his jaw hardly bothersome when he’s got the hot weight of Harry on his tongue, when he gets to hear the way Harry whimpers desperately and cants his hips. Louis pulls off momentarily, whipping his hand over Harry’s length, and murmurs, “Don’t move.”

It’s a suggestion more than anything, but Harry doesn’t seem to take it as one, going rigid and groaning long and loud when Louis buries him down his throat, goes at it quick, flattens his tongue up against the sensitive skin and bobs his head.

“Louis—fuck,” Harry moans, thrusting gently into Louis’s mouth. “ _Fuck_. Babe.” His voice rises, crests into something high-pitched and Louis sucks him in earnest, groans around him because he _knows_ Harry’s grinding his arse down into the bed, knows he’s practically hurting.

Louis’s practically drooling over his cock, spit dribbling over his fist, and—he’s okay with that, he _likes_ it, getting all messy for Harry, like making him feel good outweighs everything else.

Harry keeps trembling, nearly holding his breath and then letting it out in one long, low cry when Louis sucks his balls into his mouth and works at it quickly, careful to keep his teeth out of the way. He works him fast, sucks him slow, and it’s a lot—when Louis draws his tongue up Harry’s shaft and fucks his mouth down until his sticky cockhead knocks up against the back of Louis’s convulsing throat.

“Oh god—oh my god,” Harry whines. And when Louis sneaks his hand down and pushes his fingertip dryly against Harry’s hole, he snaps up, coming just like that, keeps his cock fed between Louis’s lips as it pulses out warm spurts.

Louis swallows it all down and lifts off, breathing raggedly and feeling oddly accomplished. “Haz, keep touching yourself,” he rasps, and something hot swells in his chest when Harry immediately goes to comply, a pained whine edging his panting.

Tipping back onto his knees, Louis just—watches him, for a moment. The way his muscles and tendons shift in his forearm and how he keeps his fingers light and delicate where they’re wrapped around his cock, how his hips keep slipping back and forth like he doesn’t know whether he wants the sensation or not. Harry’s beautiful, long and lean, tanner than usual from his time beneath the LA sun. Soft in all the right places and even some of the—supposedly—wrong ones, pliant and easy despite himself. He blinks his eyes open, and Louis smiles at him. Harry’s breath catches, and he smiles back.

And then Louis’s dropping back down, and he’s got his face buried into Harry’s thighs. Harry gasps in something like surprise, and then moans, legs spreading wide. Louis nuzzles into the crease of his thigh, hears the obscene noise of Harry getting himself off and—God, he has to keep a hard hold on him, has to curl his fingers into his hips almost too tight to keep him from moving too much, and that’s. Good.

Thankfully, Louis hasn’t shaved the last day or two, and—this is his absolute favorite thing to do. Harry’s got amazing legs, long and shapely because he runs up steep inclines and probably because he rides a lot of dick, and Louis can’t keep his hands off, running his hands up the length of them, hitching them up so Harry’s knees are in the air and he’s open wide. His thighs are soft and thick, covered in only fine hairs, like something Louis could sink his teeth into—so he does, just on the inside of Harry’s right thigh, and Harry yelps, muscles jerking, hand pausing on his cock for a moment. He’s almost hard again, wet and pink at the tip and Louis leans up to lick the pre-come off before he goes back to Harry’s legs.

He leaves a long row of bites up the insides of his thighs and then kisses over each aching point, sucks and leaves pink marks, some which fade and some that don’t, some that will stay and hurt and make Harry prickle when he wears his too-tight jeans and he’ll know, _everyone_ will know when they see him shifting about—maybe in discomfort, maybe not—and Louis moans at the idea of that.

(He’s selfish, sue him, he’s had to hide this for too long.)

Rubbing his scruffy cheeks and jaw into Harry’s sensitive skin leaves him all mottled, and Harry keeps _mewling_ , these uncontrolled noises that slip out of him like he can’t quite hold his tongue. Louis refuses to let up.

When he finally pulls back, after maybe too much time, Harry’s so fucking hard and he’s struggling to keep touching, his breath coming ragged, and his legs are an absolute _mess,_ sloppy with teeth marks and bruises and beard burn, but he keeps his legs up no matter how much they’re quivering and reaches down to squeeze gently at his balls, whimpering.

“Louis,” he says, “Lou, fuck me, yeah? Need you—in me. Fuck.” It’s like he’s talking to himself, almost, eyes glazed over and toes curled, his voice pitched low.

“Yeah,” Louis says, and shucks his sweats and boxers off. “Yeah, God, you’re so fucking—I love you.”

Harry hiccups out a quiet, “I love you too, Lou, get your cock in me before I turn twenty-two.”

He wonders what Harry will be like at twenty-two when he retrieves the lube and slicks his fingers up, petting one against Harry’s rim gently before pushing it into him, and Harry wriggles down into it, wrist wringing faster as he jacks himself off. Louis tucks a second one in easily, settling his hand on the back of Harry’s thigh and fingering him in slow, languid strokes, stretching him carefully.

As always, Louis takes his time; he loves this, usually gets Harry off this way first when Harry wants to bottom, so he’s all open and easy for him, but it’s clear that’s not happening this time. Once he gets a third finger into him, Louis twists them, curls them carefully until he’s jabbing right at Harry’s prostate and making his feet slam down and his back arch with a reedy wail. Louis rubs the pads of his fingers there in agonizing circles, and Harry keeps his fingers wrapped tight around the base of his cock like he’s trying to hold off his orgasm, whining and whimpering when Louis won’t just give him what he needs.

“How do you want it?” Louis asks, and Harry just groans, guttural. “Haz.”

“Want it—want to see you. Please, please fuck me,” Harry sobs, working down onto Louis’s fingers like he’s trying to ride them in his frustration, hips swiveling uselessly.

It isn’t like Louis’s going to say no to him. Harry sighs in relief when Louis finally lubes himself up and braces himself over him, reaching down to run his turgid cockhead slow and steady against Harry’s hole. It’s teasing and Harry hitches his legs up, one up his back, the other hooking over Louis’s shoulder.

He fills Harry up slowly, sinks into him, moans too-loud at the tight heat of him that sends his nerves flaring and his hackles tingling. “Baby,” Louis says, gripping into the sheets on either side of Harry’s head. Harry just moans, goes tight like his whole body is being drawn up by a string, and once Louis’s in to the hilt he just stays there, grinding deep, his hips cradling Harry’s bum. Harry’s hand travels down, so he can tease his fingertips against where Louis’s splitting him open, feel how stretched his hole is.

“Just—move. Fuck me,” Harry says, garbled, and he reaches up, grabs onto Louis’s shoulders tight.

Without hesitating, Louis drags out and _rams_ back into him, and Harry yowls, practically bending himself in two. This whole time, Louis’s been soft, has just—cherished Harry the way he should be, but now he’s inside him, has the warm, silky clutch of his body around his cock, and so when he fucks him he’s merciless. Louis presses his face into Harry’s neck and bites down, hips driving forward fast, skin slapping skin, friction building between them.

Louis hasn’t noticed how fucking _hard_ he is, and he nails Harry quick, feels the way he’s trying to roll his body so he can get fucked deeper, harder, how these wanton noises are punched out of him every time Louis slams into him, uses him to get off.

“Feel amazing, feel so good, you’re so good, love you,” Louis is gasping, and Harry just nods, his blunt nails clawing down Louis’s back. It stings but Louis is throbbing hard inside Harry and so it doesn’t matter, he just sucks in a deep breath and rears back onto his knees, and Harry throws one leg out and keeps the other on Louis’s shoulder and reaches down, pulls his arse cheeks apart so he’s completely _there_.

He pounds Harry’s arse unbridled and ruthless, hands on Harry’s already ruined thighs, bruising them even more with his nails as he grabs on, hauls his slack body up like he’s some kind of ragdoll and gets caught up in his own brutal rhythm, in the way the headboard is smacking a little into the wall and Harry’s got his arms up and is holding on like he’ll just float away if he doesn’t.

“Oh my g—shit, shit, _shit_ , Louis, there, right—fuck—” Harry’s chanting, his whole body straining and thighs quaking, and he thrashes as Louis shifts his hips and then fucks right up into his sweet spot, practically paralyzes him with the sensation of it. Louis can’t breathe, he’s lost any sense of control as he chases the sweet pressure that’s rocketing up his spine.

“Fuck, _Harry_ ,” Louis snarls as he shoves in deep and stays there, filling Harry up with his come, holding tight to Harry’s shaking frame.

His head doesn’t clear for a few moments but he hisses when he pulls out of Harry’s seizing hole and slumps down onto his chest, keeping Harry’s legs up and spread. When he closes his mouth over his rim, Harry writhes and howls. There’s a fog over Louis’s mind, and he laps all over Harry’s hole and his inner thighs and up to his balls, sucks all the come out of him, licks him out hungrily. He rakes over the puckered skin, tastes himself among Harry’s musk and soap, and it’s getting to his head a little, makes him uncoordinated. He sweeps his tongue into Harry and Harry rocks his hips, bearing down onto Louis’s face.

Harry’s sobbing because he’s so overwhelmed but Louis doesn’t look up to see the way his tears clump his lashes or the way he’s flushed down to his chest, just tongues all over him, wet and messy and too good, uses his teeth a little because Harry’s told him it makes him tingle all over. Harry reaches down and fists a hand roughly into Louis’s hair, shoving him forward into his arse so it’s a little hard to breathe and his face is smeared with lube and spit and come and Louis doesn’t even _care_ , just gets more fervent, more desperate, and then he lifts a hand, easily pushes three fingers into Harry’s abused-red hole, and crooks them to press right up against his prostate.

“ _Come,_ darling, please,” Louis says, and Harry _does_ , he just—comes, entire body jerking like there’s something electric in his veins, and he cries and cries and shoots off all over himself, cock spitting ropes of come up his abdomen. Louis pulls his fingers out, gives him several more flat licks, and then sucks the rest of Harry’s come off his body, too.

In the moment, everything feels like it’s on fire, but suddenly Louis just feels boneless. He kind of can’t believe that this beautiful boy is all his. Harry looks wrecked but he’s grinning like a criminal, and city lights smile over them both.

 

+

 

“Kind of like this city,” Louis murmurs into Harry’s hair once they’re all cleaned up and once Harry’s done complaining about how his arse won’t feel all right for _days_ , _probably._ Louis fails to see how that’s a bad thing.

“Kind of like you,” Harry says.

“Are you going to let me sing you happy birthday at all today?”

“Only if I can sing with you.”


End file.
